


Duck a L’Orange

by Redrikki



Category: Darkwing Duck (Cartoon), Supernatural
Genre: Crack, Crossover, Crushes, Gen, Weechesters, your neighbor's car alarm at 4am
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-06
Updated: 2013-06-09
Packaged: 2017-12-14 04:07:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,432
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/832539
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Redrikki/pseuds/Redrikki
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Winchesters try to break the curse of St. Canard, but it just might break them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The air seemed to shimmer as they crossed over the line into Canard County. Dean turned to ask Sam if he’d noticed and found a giant duckling with puppy-dog eyes and a floppy mop of dark hair where his brother had been. “Ah, Dad?” Dean fought to keep the panic from his voice as he groped for the gun he suddenly remembered was in the trunk. He kept his eyes trained on the duck-thing, but it just continued to read Sammy’s book with the corner of it’s tongue sticking out of it’s beak, just the way Sam’s did when he concentrated. “Dad,” Dean gasped, “I think Sam’s a–”

“I know,” rumbled the leather-jacket-wearing duck in the front seat. “We all are.”

Dean stared at his own webbed feet and feathered hands. He was a duck, a giant talking mutant duck with no pants. He just hoped his hair didn’t look as stupid as Sam’s. “Is,” he paused, moistening his suddenly dry beak. “Is this the case?” 

“Well, part of it anyway,” Dad sighed, rubbing a hand across his head-feathers. 

Part of it? “You mean there’s _more_?”

“More what?” Sammy asked, finally looking up from his book. “Dean, what’s this word?” He jabbed his finger at the page.

“Marigold,” Dean answered on big brother auto-pilot, “it’s a kind of flower. Ah, Sammy?” he asked quickly before the duckling-boy could get sucked back into his story. “Do you notice anything, um, different?”

Sammy frowned, looking from Dean the Pants-less Wonder Duck to Dad the Ducky Driver. “Like what?”

Was he blind? Dean knew his little brother could get wrapped up in his books, but their sudden transformation into birds should be harder to miss. “Dude, you’re a _duck_.”

Sammy’s eyes narrowed in the way that usually meant trouble. “Yeah, well you’re a _dork_!” He shouted back.

“Loser.” Dean gave his bother a little shove.

“Jerk!” Sam darted forward and seized Dean’s beak, squeezing the upper and lower halves together and giving them a sharp pull.

Dean gave a muffled yelp and yanked hard on a convenient hank of Sammy’s hair. “Dad!” Sam shrilled like he was the victim here. 

“Boys,” Dad barked without bothering to turn around. “Knock it off.”

Dean reluctantly released Sam’s hair and the little brat gave one last tug on Dean’s beak before retreating to his own side of the car. Dean rubbed his aching beak and glared angrily at his brother as they drove over the Audubon Bay Bridge and into downtown St. Canard. They’d been here for less than five minutes and he already hated this town.

****

Dad found them some dive apartment in the crummy part of town near a bar where the criminal element hung out. There were butch bull dogs in biker leather, shifty-looking donkeys in pin-striped suits and one crazy rat with a battery on his back and an electrical plug on his head. Dad spent their second day in town there, playing pool and getting the lay of the land. He came home with bills where all the presidents were ducks and Hamilton and Franklin were dogs.

“It’s so weird,” Dean mused, staring at Jackson’s beak-y mug on a twenty over a spaghetti dinner. “Everyone’s an animal but they act all-”

“Anthropomorphized.” Dad interrupted. “It’s when non-human things like animals and furniture act like people,” he explained. 

“An-thro-po-mo-fizzed,” crowed Sammy, ineffectually swiping at the tomato sauce splattered all over his beak and face-feathers. He loved long words and this one had more syllables than you could run and jump over. “It’s my new favorite word.” 

“Yeah, except it’s an-thro-po-mor-phized,” Dean corrected with an eye roll. 

Sammy’s eyes narrowed dangerously. He’d always hated being wrong, but it had gotten worse since Dean had taught him to read. Sometimes Dean wondered if the trade off of an hour or so of peace and quite and control of the remote for this know-it-all attitude was really worth it. “Is not!” Sam insisted, banging his fork on the table and splattering them all with spaghetti sauce.

“Boys.” Dad rubbed his forehead tiredly. Dean guessed being an anthropomorphized duck was giving him a headache too. At least he had pants. They started school tomorrow and, even though he knew he’d packed them, Dean couldn’t find pants for himself or Sammy anywhere. He figured their fluffy down feathers would keep them warm enough, but they wouldn’t do jack about the humiliation. Anthropomorphized might be Sammy’s new favorite word, but Dean was really starting to hate it.

****

School wasn’t anywhere near as bad as Dean had thought it would be. It turned out that no one in this town under the age of twelve wore pants anyway. The kids in his class were the usual assortment of jocks, jerks, nerds and girls, they just happened to be geese, ducks and puppies. His teacher was an actual bitch, with floppy ears and a tail and everything. She was pretty nice though. The only cool person there seemed to be this crazy red-head chick who decked the boy who fouled her shot in gym class. Now that was his kind of girl...duck...whatever. Feisty. 

After school, Dean maneuvered Sammy and himself next to where she waited on the sidewalk with her friend. “So, um, Gosalyn, right?” he began nervously. This wasn’t like trying to get an extra piece of pie from some waitress; he wanted this girl to like him. Not kissing like him, ‘cause that was girly, but like him like the guys who had girl friends on TV. “That’s some right hook you’ve got,” he offered. It was the kind of praise he knew he liked to hear.

“Thanks,” she said, a faint blush showing through her face-feathers. “You’re Dean, right?”

“Yeah, I-”

“Gos.” A voice carried over the chatter of students and the low rumble of their parents’ cars. “Gosalyn.” 

“Is that your dad?” Sammy asked, pointing to a red-headed duck with a bomber jacket and flight helmet waving from a battered car.

Gosalyn grinned and shook her head. “No, that’s my dad’s friend Launchpad. He’s” –She winced as the car flew backwards into the flagpole with a metallic crunch– “a really bad driver. See you tomorrow, Dean,” she yelled over her shoulder as she and her friend ran to the car. She was tough and brave enough to drive anywhere with that lunatic and pretty cute too with her pig-tails and the way her tail-feathers stuck out from under her hockey jersey. Dean wondered what she’d look like when Dad fixed what was wrong.

****

“It’s a curse,” Dad told him while Sammy washed up for dinner. Dean looked up sharply from setting the table. Dad usually never told him what he was hunting. Sometimes after, but never during. 

“What do we do?” Dean asked excitedly. Did this mean Dad needed him to come along? Dean had been itching to shoot at something besides cans. “Do you need my help?”

Dad chuckled and gently ruffled Dean’s feathers. “I think I got this one sport,” he said. “You know the best way you can help me.”

“Take care of Sammy,” Dean sighed as he finished setting the table. All he ever did was take care of Sammy. He loved his little brother, but Dean wasn’t a baby any more. He was nine. He could totally help destroy a curse or blow something up. If only Dad would let him. 

After dinner, Dad headed to the bar to see if any of the criminal types had a lead on a possibly cursed object. Dean cleared the table and did the dishes while Sammy watched, of all things, the evening news. On the TV, this town’s answer to the capped crusader took a header off a twenty story building. And bounced. Dean shook his head as he turned off the tap. This crazy town was like living in a cartoon world. What kind of vigilante didn’t obey the laws of physics? 

Dishes and homework done, he curled up on the couch with Sammy to read the _Hardy Boys_ with him like Dean had promised. The mystery was decent, just enough action for Dean without being too scary for Sammy. In all the illustrations the brothers were dogs. Dean thought ducks like him and Sammy would have been way cooler.


	2. Chapter 2

After three months in St. Canard, the novelty had worn off the whole anthropomorphized animal thing. Dean liked stomping in puddles with his webbed feet and it had been ages since he’d gotten the giggles watching Sammy try to brush his beak. Their landlord was a giant rat, their across-the-hall neighbor was a big pig and some days it seemed like it had always been that way. Dad had a job at a garage and had been on a few salt-and-burns. Everything was so normal it was almost hard to remember that there even was a curse. 

At school, Dean’s plan to win Gosalyn’s friendship wasn’t going as well as he’d hoped. The problem was that she already had a best guy friend, a goosey nerd, and, for a dude with such thick glasses, he sure was possessive. Plus, it turned out talking to girls, even ones who acted like normal people instead of giggling and playing with dolls all the time, was actually really hard. If only Dean could tell her about hunting. Then Gosalyn would think he was cool.

Dean sighed and let his fork chase the swirl of his dinner around his plate. He thought about Gosalyn’s red pigtails and the way her green eyes lit up in a fist fight. He wondered how kissing worked with a beak. 

“Boys,” Dad’s low, serious tone cut through Dean’s musings like a karate chop. “I’m going out later, and I want you two to have everything packed for when I get back.”

“Aw, Dad,” groused Sammy. “I like it here.” He always said that and they always moved anyway. He was a smart enough kid, Dean wondered why he hadn’t picked up on that pattern. 

“You always say that,” Dad said with a gentle smile. “You’ll like the next place too. Besides, the semester’s almost over and it’s time to move on.”

Satisfied with that explanation, or maybe just resigned to the inevitable, Sammy gave a dejected sigh and pouted in his milk, but Dean wasn’t satisfied at all. It was another month until the end of the semester and the only reason Sam didn’t know that was ‘cause he probably didn’t know what one was. Why were they really moving now? Was it a hunt or had someone called Social Services again? Dean hoped it was a hunt. Ghosts he could handle, social workers were scary. 

After dinner, Dean sent Sam off to start packing his stuff while Dean washed the dishes and boxed up the kitchen. Carefully wrapping their small collection of mismatched plates in their stolen hotel sheets and towels, Dean watched as Dad cleaned and loaded his favorite gun on the kitchen table.

“You found it didn’t you,” Dean asked excitedly. “The curse thing?” A sudden and frightening thought occurred to him. “It didn’t get back to you, did it?” That had happened a couple of times before and it hadn’t been fun. Dean tried to worry his lower beak, but it just wasn’t the same without lips. “You need me to wipe everything down?”

“No, dude, we’re good.” Dad stuck his gun at the small of his back and pocketed a handful of the fast-food salt packets that lived on the napkin stack in the center of the table. “It’s at City Hall. I’m gonna go get it tonight. Just be ready to move when I get here.”

“Yes, sir.” They’d be ready to go. Dean was really good at packing.

Dad gently ruffled Dean’s feathers. “Good man. You know the drill?”

Dead took a deep breath and dutifully recited standard operating procedure from looking out for Sammy to shooting first with questions later. He wondered if Gosalyn would be impressed that he knew how to use a gun. Too bad he’d never get to tell her.

****

Contrary to popular belief, careful packing wasn’t just about cramming all your stuff into a small space. Packing was about organization and strategy. It was a science and Dean was all over it. All the little used, apartment-y stuff destined for the back of the trunk was in one neat pile close by the door so it could be taken out first, while all the guns, clothes and toiletries they would need for their next hotel room were all set to go last.

Sam and Dean were on the couch, fully clothed and ready to go too, or at least Dean was. It was pushing midnight and Sammy had fallen asleep hours ago, his head pillowed on Dean’s thigh. Dean kept himself awake and reasonably alert watching late night talk shows. Every time he started to nod off, he tightened his fist around the handle of their trusty first aid kit to remind himself what he was here for. He needed to be ready for a medical emergency, a quick getaway, for just about anything really. 

Dean was still puzzling his way through some of the more adult humor in Letterman’s top ten when he heard the familiar rumble of the Impala’s engine. He slipped out from under Sammy, grabbed the med kit, and went to let Dad in. The older duck didn’t seem to be bleeding but, even with the feathers, Dean could tell his color was off.

“You okay? What happened?” he asked worriedly as he shadowed Dad into the kitchen.

“It was the damnedest thing,” Dad said, slumping into one of the kitchen chairs. “Grab me a drink, will ya,” he added.

Dean dutifully fished the last beer out of the cooler for Dad and, despite the emergency pit-stop he knew they’d have to make later, grabbed a juice box for himself too. He took a seat, passed across the beer and jammed the little straw into his own drink. Dean waited until Dad had taken a few gulps before he started the interrogation. “So,” he asked again, “what happened?”

Dad took another gulp and shook his head. “I got in there okay. The alarm system was pretty simple. It took me a while to find the damn thing, but I unlocked the case and...

_John tucked his lock-picks away and was about to open the display case when he noticed a pillar of dark smoke starting to coalesce a few feet away. John rose slowly to his feet and carefully reached for the salt packets in his coat. He hadn’t heard about a haunting or any demonic omens at City Hall, but he was suddenly glad he’d come prepared._

_“I am the terror that flaps in the night.” The low, disembodied voice seemed to come from nowhere and everywhere at the same time. “I am the peanut butter that gums up your mouth,” it continued, somewhat less ominously. “I am” –the smoke dispersed with a poof revealing a short duck in a purple cape and floppy hat –“Darkwing Duck,” he intoned dramatically._

_“Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me.”_

_“No, felonious fiend,” the duck said, dramatically swirling his cape, “Desist your dastardly deeds.”_

_“What?” asked John, momentarily overwhelmed by all the alliteration._

_A look of annoyance flashed over the duck’s masked face. “Suck gas, evil doer,” he cried and, before John could do more than cover his face, fired off a round of tear gas. Noxious smoke rapidly filled the hallway and, eyes streaming and gasping for breath, John..._

made a strategic retreat,” Dad explained. 

“You actually met Darkwing Duck?” Dean asked excitedly. “That’s so cool. I saw him on TV. He’s like Batman, only a duck and without Bruce Wayne’s money.” 

“Yeah, that’s great, son,” Dad snorted into his beer. “But now I’ve gotta go back again tomorrow night though.”

They were staying for another day? That meant Dean would be able to say goodbye to Gosalyn. That meant he could go on the class field trip. The class field trip to City Hall. “Dad” –he tugged on Dad’s sleeve, giddy with lack of sleep and excitement–“Dad, _I_ could get it. You never re-locked the case and we’re going there tomorrow. I can grab it and put it in my backpack. It’ll be so easy.”

“Dean,” Dad sighed. He looked so old, so tired and Dean was all the more determined to do it. If Dad only knew he could count on Dean to do more than just pack and watch Sammy, then maybe he wouldn’t be so tired all the time. If they shared to load together, maybe it wouldn’t be so heavy. 

“I can do this, Dad,” Dean said. He tried to make his eyes big and dewy, like Sammy did when he really wanted something. “I can do this. Let me help. Please.”

Dad stared hard at him for a minute and Dean did his darndest to look sincere and responsible. His eyes drifted from Dean’s face to the neat piles of boxes by the door to Sammy curled up asleep on the couch. “Alright,” he whispered, slumping as if in defeat. “Alright, but you be careful,” he added, clasping Dean’s shoulder and giving him a little shake.

“Yes, sir.” Dean straighten to attention under Dad’s hand, just about bursting with pride. He’d be extra-special careful. This was his big chance to prove himself and he wouldn’t let Dad down. Dean was extra attentive as Dad described the cursed object and where to find it. Funny how Dad didn’t look any less tired when was done explaining though. He didn’t look like he was sharing his burdens. He just looked kind of sad.


	3. Chapter 3

Finding and stealing the cursed little statue turned out to be even easier than Dean had thought it would be, but there was one thing he hadn’t counted on. The eyes. They were everywhere, staring at him, at his backpack, and they knew. Dean spent the rest of the tour positive that at any minute someone would announce his thievery to the world. The whole scenario played out in his head like a bad after-school special about why crime doesn’t pay. He would go to jail for the rest of his life, or at least until he turned eight-teen, and Gosalyn would hate him. Dean would spend his days pumping iron in the yard and trying not to drop the soap while at home Sammy starved without Dean there to feed him. Worse yet, even after he escaped, ‘cause he totally would, Dad would never trust Dean with anything ever again. He was suddenly glad he’d forgotten his lunch in all the excitement because he was pretty sure he was gonna throw up. 

When they made it safely to the bus without anyone crying stop, thief, Dean began to calm down, but his heart leapt right back into his beak when he looked left at a stop light and saw Darkwing freaking Duck. He was riding what could have been the most bad-ass motorcycle ever if it hadn’t been purple and had a giant red-headed duck in a bomber jacket crammed awkwardly into a tiny sidecar. Dean was so sure the jig was up that it took him a while to notice that Darkwing wasn’t storming the bus to give Dean a taste of vigilante justice. He was preening on his bike and doing a smooth miss America wave while his sidekick flailed his arm like a hyperactive five year old. In the seat in front of Dean, Gosalyn and her goose-friend Honker were waving back just as enthusiastically. 

The light changed to green and, as Darkwing’s sweet purple motorcycle sped away, Dean realized something. The sidekick hadn’t been just any old duck in a bomber jacket and flight helmet, he’d been Gosalyn’s dad’s friend Launchpad. Gosalyn’s dad’s friend knew Darkwing Duck. Gosalyn’s dad...“Dude, Gosalyn, is your dad Darkwing Duck?”

“What? No,” she exclaimed in a way that marked her as a really bad liar. “My dad’s just a regular–”

“No, it’s cool,” Dean interrupted her, but it was more than just cool. It was freaking awesome. Now they could bond over their children of super-heros status and maybe she could talk her dad into letting Dean take a spin on that bike. “My dad’s a super-hero too.”

“Keen gear!” She exclaimed. Dean wasn’t quite sure what that meant, but he knew she was as excited as he was. 

Then Honker had to rain on their best-buddies parade. “I don’t remember hearing about a new crime fighter in town,” he said, pushing his coke-bottle glasses back from where they’d slid down his beak.

Gosalyn’s face fell. “Oh, he doesn’t fight crime,” Dean explained before she could think he was a liar. “He fights monsters and stuff.”

“Monsters?” She looked interested again. Interested and kind of scared. 

“Yeah, but we’re not hunting monsters here,” he reassured her. “We’re breaking a curse.”

“Is it bad?” Gosalyn asked, her face serious. 

And that’s when it hit him, really hit him. She didn’t know. She had no clue she was supposed to be a human girl with lips and pants and non-webbed feet just like Sammy hadn’t noticed there was anything wrong with this town. As far as they, as far as everyone, was concerned, this being a duck thing was perfectly normal. “It’s...weird,” Dean hedged. “But don’t worry though, me and my dad, we’re gonna break it.”

****

For a cursed object, it was kind of nice. It was a statue of an anthropomorphized duck, brave and dashing looking, like Dad, only without a cool leather jacket. It sat on their kitchen table and Dean wondered if it was supposed to be a human or if it had always been a duck and that was why there was a curse in the first place. “So, now what do we do with it?”

“We burn it,” said Dad, eyeing the statue like it was something he’d pried off of the bottom of his shoe.

Dean studied the cursed little statue. It looked like bronze, or maybe copper. Once, when Sammy was two, he had tossed Dean’s change-purse into Uncle Bobby’s fireplace. After the fire was out, the little bag was gone, but all but all of the coins had been fine. “How do we burn metal?”

Dad considered, scratching the feathers on his chin. “Foundry maybe? There’s gotta be one somewhere in this town. Let’s hope they keep the fires going at night.”

Dean wasn’t sure what a foundry was, but suddenly his simple plan to break the curse and show Gosalyn once and for all how awesome he was was looking like a whole lot of work. “What if we don’t?”

“What if we don’t what?” Dad was starting to sound annoyed, like all the extra work was bugging him too. “Find a foundry? Well, it’s not like we can just burn the damn thing in the sink, Dean.”

Dean shrank back from the harsh tone. He hated it when Dad was mad at him. “No,” he said quietly, head down and scuffing the floor with his webbed feet. “I mean what if we just don’t break the curse.” He risked a look at Dad. His expression was not promising. “It’s not hurting anyone.”

“It’s a curse, Dean,” Dad barked, “and we’re hunters. Breaking curses is what we do.”

“I know, but it’s not hurting anybody and...” – he floundered for something more, something to give his argument that extra kick– “...and Gosalyn’s dad. He fell from this really tall building and he bounced! If it wasn’t for the curse, he’d be a sidewalk pancake.” He smiled shyly up at Dad. “See, it’s a good thing. And I don’t even know what a foundry _is_.”

Dad sighed. He looked at Dean’s earnest face. He looked at the statue. He looked around their packed-up apartment and over to where Sammy was quietly trying to read and watch tv simultaneously. Dad sighed again. “Screw it,” said Dad, flopping into a chair. “I am so sick of this town,” he groaned, shaking his head. “I am so sick of being a duck.”

Dean nodded slowly. Did that mean it was find-a-foundry time or were they just gonna split? “So, now what?’

“I guess now we put it back.”

****

Dad took the time to walk Dean through disabling the alarm system, which was actually kind of neat. It was so easy Dean wondered why they even bothered. If a nine year old with a leg up could get around it, real criminals should have no problem. 

City Hall at night looked different, the columns trailing long, looming shadows. The halls were darker, creepier, and without all the voices and other people, their footsteps echoed ominously on the marble floor. They made their way quickly to the display case and were about to put the cursed little statue back when a voice interrupted them. 

“I am the terror that flaps in the night,” the voice said, echoing like crazy. Dad just sighed like the cop in _Lethal Weapon_ who was too old for this shit. “I am your neighbors car alarm at 3 AM.” A cloud of smoke began to form and Dean knew what was coming. “I am Darkwing Duck!”

The smoke cleared and there he was. Darkwing looked taller and more bad-ass in person than he had falling off the building on tv, but he was still way shorter than Dad and not much taller than Dean. The duck knew how to make an entrance though. Maybe Dean should talk Dad into getting some smoke bombs and witty catch-phrases. That would be sweet. 

“You again.” The super-hero’s eyes narrowed dangerously. His eyes flitted to where Dean stood at Dad’s side and his whole face hardened. “Passing on your villainous ways?” He wiped out the weirdest gun Dean had ever seen and aimed it at Dad’s face. “Suck–”

Dad darted forward and rammed the little statue into the end of Darkwing’s gun. “Keep the damn thing,” he snapped and started to drag Dean away towards the safety of their packed car and a waiting Sammy.

“Nice to meet you, Mr. Mallard,” Dean called over his shoulder to the rather confused-looking duck. “Tell Gosalyn I said bye.”

****

Five miles past the Audubon Bay Bridge, the air gave a familiar shiver. Sammy was a little boy again, and in the front seat Dad was back to normal too. Dean looked down at his own jeans and sneakers and sighed. He’d kind of miss having webbed feet.


End file.
